It is not in riches that happiness lies.

There may be a bountiful store

Of silver and gold, and treasures untold,

And yet the possessor be poor.

There's a sweet little maiden whose fortunes I know;

She has only hope for her dower;

And yet she wins love from the birds of the air,

And cherishes one little flower.

And a happier maiden is not to be found

Than Mary, the gentle and true:

Her riches are stores of the heart, which will last

To bless her the whole of life through.

And when she must pass to the heavenly home,

The treasures she gathered below

Will be garnered, and kept in the storehouse above,

Where all sweet affections must grow.


"A Sabbath well spent

Brings a week of content,

And health for the joys of tomorrow;

But a Sabbath profaned,

Whate'er may be gained,

Is a sure forerunner of sorrow.